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The arrival of our sailboat Oceanolog in Portobelo Bay was marked not by the booming salute of cannons (though we half-joked about it), but by a quiet anchoring beneath the historic walls of Fort San Fernando—a striking reminder of the Spanish colonial legacy in the Caribbean.

Climbing the path from the lower battery to the upper levels, and finally to the old watchtower, we were treated to sweeping views of both the bay and the town of Portobelo. It was easy to imagine the days when this coastline bristled with muskets, red sashes, and the ever-looming threat of pirates.

The bay’s defenses have seen centuries of drama. The first fortifications—Fuerte San Felipe and Fuerte San Diego—were constructed in 1601 to protect this valuable Spanish outpost. But history wasn’t kind to them. In 1739, British Admiral Edward Vernon led an assault that reduced those forts to rubble. The ruins lay quiet for two decades, until the Spanish rebuilt over them in 1760, creating Fuerte San Fernando, equipped with a 14-gun battery and a smaller six-cannon emplacement.

Fast forward to the early 20th century: American engineers, eager to fortify the Panama Canal, dismantled large portions of the fort. The old stones were repurposed to build the breakwater that now protects the canal’s northern entrance—a fittingly practical (if tragic) second life for a fortress meant to guard an empire’s treasure route.

As we stood among moss-covered walls and rusted cannon mounts, the past felt startlingly close. Portobelo’s role as a crossroads of colonial ambition and Caribbean resistance still lingers in the air—alongside the scent of sea salt and history.

On our way to Lipton Bay Marina, we stumbled upon something truly surreal—something that looked like a house, but not quite a house… a tower, but not really a tower either. Intrigued, we grabbed the binoculars and squinted into the distance. There it was: a round, white structure perched on a single leg, seemingly floating above the sea like a giant alien mushroom. A few minutes later, another one appeared on the horizon—similar shape, two kilometers off the coast. The weirdness escalated. We cruised around the bay in awe, and by the time we finally found a spot to drop anchor (no easy feat—it was packed with yachts), we spotted yet another one of these UFO-esque structures near the bay’s entrance. This one looked a little different but equally otherworldly. At first, we thought we had stumbled onto the set of a sci-fi film—or maybe an ambitious Bond villain’s hideout. But a quick Google search told us otherwise.

The next morning, curiosity got the better of us, and we hopped into the dinghy to investigate these floating marvels. Up close, the first one was… less majestic. Turns out, this SeaPod prototype was never completed. An abandoned dream, bobbing gently on the tide. We made our way toward the second one, which looked more promising—and habitable. It’s actually available for short-term rentals, likely targeting curious guests and potential buyers. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get any closer due to a coral reef surrounding it, making it inaccessible from our side by boat. But we got a decent look—and a story worth telling.

These strange marine mushrooms are the creation of Ocean Builders, a Panamanian company specializing in high-tech marine living. In 2022, they unveiled their SeaPod—a futuristic floating house designed by Dutch architect Koen Olthuis. The SeaPod rises 2.2 meters above the sea, offering 360-degree panoramic ocean views from its 53 square meters of windows. It spans 3.5 levels and includes a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. Fancy a bit more drama? You can also add an underwater room to spy on fish like a Bond villain. Prices range from $295,000 to $1.5 million, depending on the bells and whistles. The house is marketed as a way to live on water without sacrificing modern luxuries, “designed to feel like living on land—only better,” according to Ocean Builders’ director.

As a sailor, I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at this idea. Living on a boat already comes with enough sway, squeaks, and salt. Turning that into a permanent living situation—without the mobility and adventure of sailing—seems a bit questionable. A weeklong stay? Sure, sign me up for sunsets and sea breezes. But full-time floating? I’ll pass. From what we’ve seen, the grand rollout hasn’t quite taken off. Ocean Builders originally planned to deliver 100 SeaPods to early adopters by the end of 2023, with 1,000 more on the way in 2024. Fast forward to 2025, and… we’re still looking at the same three prototypes, one of which appears occupied. The others? Stalled or abandoned.

Despite the setbacks, the SeaPod is an ambitious, fascinating project—part utopia, part startup hustle. Visionaries like these often take the first steps that lead to real change, even if the first few prototypes don’t quite float everyone’s boat (pun intended). We’ll be watching from our gently bobbing deck to see how this experiment unfolds. Who knows? Maybe one day floating homes will be as common as floating docks. For now, it’s one wild idea… floating just off the coast of Panama.

After a month in the dreamy embrace of the San Blas Islands, it was time to lift anchor and head north along the Panamanian coast. Just 20 nautical miles later, we found our first taste of “mainland civilization” in the form of a Panamanian marina—our reentry point into the world of supermarkets, laundry machines, and (gasp!) freshwater showers.

At just $20 per night, the marina was a rare gem—easily the best price we’d seen in the Caribbean for a long time. It felt like a welcome mat rolled out by the coast itself. Surrounding the docks was a peaceful park, a soft-sand beach, and a rather mysteriously empty hotel. Despite its ghost-town vibe, the area had everything we needed.

Well, except for sunshine.

The rain came with the kind of stubborn consistency only the wet season can deliver. We were drenched daily, but on the bright side (pun intended), we managed to refill our water tanks entirely with rainwater. Everything else—including ourselves—got soaked too, but thanks to our trusty onboard heater, we were able to dry out and stay warm. A small win!

A pleasant surprise rolled in on four wheels: a vegetable van brimming with fresh produce—pineapples, papayas, tomatoes, avocados, and more. The marina office also doubled as a tiny store stocked with basic bulk goods. And, of course, the ever-faithful palm trees continued to provide us with coconuts—because nature always delivers where supermarkets fall short.

We ended up staying three days, using the time to catch up on boat chores, restock provisions, chat with fellow sailors, and even complete a 24-hour CTD mooring as part of our ocean data collection. Sure, it rained almost non-stop—but hey, when you’re cruising in the rainy season, you either complain or you collect rainwater, put on a dry shirt, and make it memorable.

And memorable it was.